


Free Verse

by phoenixflight



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Erotic Poetry, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Friend Group Dynamics, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, back story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: It was not that Csevet had secrets from the Emperor, precisely, more that the Emperor had no need to know all the details of his secretary’s life. The fact that Csevet would have gladly given Maia Drazhar any piece of himself that the emperor might desire was immaterial. Edrehasivar would never know about the poetry.Wherein Csevet writes dirty poems for his friends and really, really never meant for the Emperor to find out.
Relationships: Csethiro Ceredin/Maia Drazhar, Csevet Aisava/Maia Drazhar, Csevet Aisava/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 105





	Free Verse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Summernight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335008) by [farevenasdecidedtouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/pseuds/farevenasdecidedtouse). 
  * Inspired by [Love Thou Cans’t Not Have](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356146) by [1010nabulation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1010nabulation/pseuds/1010nabulation). 



> I have been working on this fic for. like. literally a year. I wanted to write something exploring Csevet's back story, and the inevitably rougher world he comes from than the polished court life. I had sooo much fun writing his interactions with his friends. I have borrowed some of the OC's names from other fics in this fandom - including [Summernight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335008) by farevenasdecidedtouse and [Love Thou Canst Not Have](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356146) by 1010nabulation - as well as some of my headcanons about Csevet's taste in lovers and what couriers might get up to in their spare time.........
> 
> A million thanks to [Nini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniblack/pseuds/niniblack) for beta'ing. Any remaining mistakes are mine. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

It was not that Csevet had secrets from the Emperor, precisely, more that the Emperor had no need to know all the details of his secretary’s life. The fact that Csevet would have gladly given Maia Drazhar any piece of himself that the emperor might desire was immaterial. Edrehasivar would never know about the poetry. 

It began innocently enough, back in Csevet’s days as a courier. He’d had a reputation among his peers for being good with words and smart - perhaps too smart for his own good. One of his friends had asked him for help composing a love letter, and Csevet had written a bit of sentimental poetry in exchange for a couple of drinks.

The habit had continued, word spreading among the couriers and even to soldiers and servants, and eventually Csevet was doing a brisk side business in romantic correspondence on others’ behalf. It was a way of padding his pockets in addition to a courier’s meager salary, and a source of mild, personal entertainment. He had spent a number of long journeys with his dispatch case slung across his back considering synonyms for “hair like moonlight” and new euphemisms for fucking. 

Then came the reign of Edrehasivar VII, and Csevet’s life was turned on its head. He was not trained as a secretary although it did not occur to Maia Drazhar to worry about that. Csevet bent all his intelligence and his gift with words, as well as his recall for gossip and his best courtly manners, to serve his new Emperor - his honest, idealistic, naive Emperor. 

He truly did not have time for any kind of work in addition to the eighteen or twenty hours a day he spent with Edrehasivar, nor in all honesty, time for his old friends. But when an old friend, Anaru, visited his rooms one evening, plied him with wine and said, "Come on. Csevet, she thinks I'm a poet. It's her birthday next week," Csevet acquiesced, with poor grace. 

“If thou art serious about her, wilt have to tell her sooner or later that thou art not in truth a writer. And if not, then what matters her birthday?” He did not have the luxury of obstinacy or irritability in his service with Edrehasivar, and it was a small pleasure to indulge in. 

Anaru made a face. “Think of the lady, if not of me,” he said, clapping a hand over his heart. “Think of how thy words move her.” 

“Move thee in her, more like,” Csevet muttered, and Anaru gasped theatrically. 

“I am wounded! I think only of her tender affections and sweet sighs.” 

Csevet rolled his eyes. “Get out of here. I’ve got work to do. Including getting thy prick wet, apparently.” The lamp was already burning low and he still had a stack of work to do before morning. 

“Does the emperor know what a vicious bitch thou art?” Anaru said, grinning. 

It was meant as a joke but it struck a nerve. Csevet scowled. “Mind your tongue when you speak to us.”

Anaru threw his hands up to cover his ears. “Ah, don’t use that courtly talk. I’m of a sickly constitution and manners give me hives.” Leaning on the door jam, he said, “I owe thee a favor.” 

“Aye, thou dost,” Csevet muttered, bending over his desk. “Oafish brute.” 

“Much better,” Anaru said, pulling the door shut behind himself. “Let me buy thee a drink sometime. And don’t work too hard, Csevet.” 

_ “Don’t work too hard, Csevet,” _ Csevet mimicked under his breath, but Anaru was gone. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, tapping his pen against his lower lip. He had a half a dozen letters still to sort, and twice as many dossiers and missives on the various sundries of civil governance to be read, categorized, and ranked by urgency. It was headache-inducing and necessary work that he ought not to put off. 

Pulling a blank sheet from his stack, he dipped his pen in the ink and wrote,  _ The parts of thee which call to me when our fingers touch are to be named only in the silence of my tongue…  _

The poem, of course, did not bear his name, so it was innocuous enough that he might have simply addressed the envelope to Anaru and entrusted it to a page or the pneumatic system. But he had an hour free while Edrehasivar took supper with Arbelan Drazharan, just enough time for a brisk walk down to the barracks where the royal couriers were lodged when they were not running messages. Never mind that the list of things requiring his attention grew longer every moment he was gone from his desk. 

His feet would never forget the way to his old quarters, though it had been nearing a year since he had slept there last, with Anaru, Kaler, Anmuris and the others, all snoring and leaving their unwashed leathers about. The luxury of his own room was astonishing to one who had grown up with eleven sisters, living on top of one another in abject poverty, and yet sometimes he missed the comfort of hearing others breathe in the darkness at night. 

Anaru looked like he had just returned from an assignment, still wearing dusty leathers. When Csevet leaned in the doorway of the barracks and waved, Anaru swore vehemently. 

“Well met!” he exclaimed, pulling Csevet into a hug. “I didn’t expect an important man like thyself to come slumming with us.” 

“Isn’t slumming with couriers a well-known aristocratic past time?” Csevet said, grinning. 

“Is that Csevet? I’ll be fucked.” It was Eru, who had been on a long journey when Csevet was gathering his belongings and moving to his own rooms. They had never gotten a chance to say goodbye. 

They embraced, laughing and insulting one another, and Csevet handed Anaru the letter. 

“Ahh, thou art a hero. Truly.” He pulled the poem out of the envelope and gave a cheerful bark of laughter. “Still hast the touch. Eru, listen.  _ I want to drown in thy warm, dark heart where I can feel thy heart pulse with my own blood-hot... _ ”

“Ulis’ guts,” Csevet swore. “Not out loud.” 

“Aw, too shy to have thy filthy verse read out? Or too refined now?” Eru crooned. 

“I’m no more high born than thou, Eru Ketirezh,” Csevet scowled, cheeks warm. To be compared to the nobles they served was something of an insult among the couriers, though they all learned the manners of rank in order to serve the highest in the land. 

“A bit above your station then, aren’t thou?” Eru said, looping an arm around his shoulders. “Listen, I’ve got a bottle of moonbrew from that old monk in Thu-Cethar if thou wilst write me a verse for a girl.” 

“I don’t have time for that,” Csevet protested. 

“Oh come on, art the most important peasant in the Untheileneise. Surely hast got people to delegate to. There’s a girl I’ve been working on for months. A bit of poetry would do wonders.” 

“It’s not my problem if a girl has the good sense not to want thy ugly face.” 

Eru punched his arm. “Ah it’s not that she doesn’t want me. It’s that I only see her when I carry letters for Dach’osmerrem Cambesharan to the Bazhavel estate. She doesn’t want a long distance lover, but if I could send her love letters…” He trailed off, jostling Csevet’s arm meaningfully.

Csevet frowned. “What’s Dach’osmerrem Cambesharan doing writing to the Bazhavada?” 

“Something about a fostering, I think.” 

That was news to Csevet, who made it his business to know the comings and goings of the noble houses. The Cambeshada were poor but of good blood, and if they were allying themselves with the Count Bazhavel and his house, it bore watching. 

“Next time you’re carrying a message, copy it out for me before you deliver it, and I’ll write you a love poem that’ll have thy girl on her back practically before she breaks the seal.” 

Eru whooped and clapped him on the back and Anaru laughed. “Come out for a drink with us. We’re meeting Sothea and Miraïs at the Blue Hart tonight.” 

“I cannot. I’m expected back within the hour.” 

Eru glanced incredulously at the darkening sky outside. “You keep worse hours than a new stablehand.” 

“Surely one night,” Anaru said. “We miss thee. Sothea misses thee.” He waggled his eyebrows. 

Csevet deliberately did not react. It was no secret that he took male lovers as well as female, and that Sothea, one of his oldest and dearest friends, was among that number. No one paid much attention to what couriers did between one another, but it was something else entirely to have such a thing known about the emperor’s head secretary. 

“Some other night,” Csevet promised, to deflect the comment. “When I can plan ahead more time to be away.” He left them, with more farewells and promises, and was back in the Alchethmeret before Edrehasivar returned from supper. 

It was dangerous for one so close to the emperor to go out drinking like a commoner, where anyone interested in learning imperial secrets might get their hands on him. But dressed in his old leathers and with his hair braided simply and the silver rings in his ears replaced with plated bronze, there was nothing to distinguish Csevet from any of the other couriers who would be making merry. There was no reason anyone should recognize his face, for the tavern was not the sort frequented by any of the courtiers or witnesses who had seen Csevet standing at Edrehasivar’s side. 

He had managed to arrange an evening when the emperor was attending a musical recital, which would take up the entirety of the evening and, not being a political event, not require Csevet’s presence. He’d sent word to his friends and gotten an eager response. So he left the Untheileneise by the servants' gate and followed a familiar route to the Blue Hart. 

It was one of the courier fleet’s favorite haunts, and Csevet could find his way there or back blind drunk and half asleep - he’d had practice. When he set foot inside the smoky, dimly lit tavern, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders; the weight of respectability and performance, the constant nagging fear that perhaps today would be the day that someone objected to a low-born commoner acting as the emperor’s closest advisor. 

His friends were already gathered at a table near the hearth, and they greeted him with raucous good cheer, clearly already into their drink. Anaru and Eru were both there, along with Kaler who was a staunch friend and frequent lover, and Miraïs who was attached to a different branch of the courier fleet but who had come to their group through entanglement with Kaler. And there was Sothea also, his beautiful black braids twined with scarlet silk ribbons that complimented his golden goblin eyes. 

He embraced each of them, settled at the table, and set about catching up on gossip and drinking. They regaled him with a dozen entertaining tales of other courier friends, of nobles, of soldiers and servants. Being washed with so many familiar names was like tasting a recipe that he had not eaten in years. 

Eventually Eru said, “I’ve got a copy of a letter here for thee, Csevet. How about that poem?” and Csevet handed over the poem he had written, in exchange for a page in Eru’s messy scrawl. He glanced at it and then tucked it into his jacket for a closer examination when he was more sober. 

Eru unfolded the poem and crowed in delight. “Oh yes, this is perfect. Listen, everyone.” 

Csevet groaned and covered his face. It was not as racy as the one he had written Anaru - he supposed a girl still being woo’d would like tamer phrases than an established love. Nothing that would faze any of the patrons of the Blue Hart. Kaler patted his back sympathetically, and shouted, “Read it!” 

“Traitor,” Csevet mumbled, and heard Sothea chuckle.

Eru cleared his throat and read loudly, “When thy radiance shines upon me, I forget the light of the jealous moon. I ache in every part when we are distant, and count the slow cycles of the sky till we are joined.” 

Csevet’s ears were low and burning red as Eru finished reading the poem aloud. There was a smattering of applause and drunken cheering when he’d finished and Csevet allowed them to buy his next drink and praise his gift with words. 

“So this is the silver tongue that won the emperor’s favor,” Kaler said, knowing, in Csevet’s ear, and he choked on a mouthful of ale. 

He spent a good deal of time reminding himself not to think thus of Maia Drazhar, and he scowled at Kaler. “Watch yourself.” He had never particularly considered that his taste in lovers ran to darker skin and thick dark curls, but with Kaler on one side and Sothea on the other, both part goblin, Csevet was uncomfortably aware of it. 

Kaler grinned back, unrepentant. “I heard about thy deal with Eru. I’ve been carrying messages from the Imada to some merchant families in Thu-Evresar. If thou’dst like a look at any of them…” 

Csevet rolled his eyes. “What kind of a poem dost thou want?” 

“A poem for a boy.” 

“Which boy?” 

“Any boy, make it general. I’ll add the name in later.” 

“Thou shameless whore,” Miraïs crowed from across the table, with cries of agreement from Eru and Anaru. 

Sothea, seated on the other side of Csevet, leaned over to say, “Better make it racy, or anyone who’s met him will know he didn’t write it.” Csevet huffed a laugh. Sothea’s chest was pressed warm against Csevet’s shoulder, thigh to thigh beneath the table. Kaler still had a hand on his back. It was distracting. 

The talk turned back to other people’s lives and lovers, to the recent scandal of a distant Danivada cousin who had run off with a blacksmith and been forcibly brought back by her family, and a prelate of Thu-Tetor who had been caught doing unspeakable things to corpses. Sooner or later, couriers knew everyone’s business, and Csevet reflected that perhaps he ought to make more time for his old friends. Not just because of Kaler and Sothea leaning against him, although it didn’t help his focus that he had been celibate in his new royally-adjacent isolation for nigh on a year. 

As the evening lengthened, Miraïs and Eru bid them all goodbye, having the early shift for reporting to Captain Volsharezh for assignment. Csevet, who rose every day at 5, to be dressed, breakfasted, and have the day’s papers in order by the time the emperor emerged from his chambers at 8, knew he ought to go with them. But he remained seated, drinking and laughing at Anaru’s outrageous stories and Kaler’s crude jokes, feeling relaxed and selfish. 

Eventually, Kaler and Anaru got drawn into a heated argument over something or other. Csevet, comfortably drunk, had stopped listening. He had his head tipped on Sothea’s shoulder, and Sothea’s hand on his thigh, fingers tracing the inseam of his trousers. 

“I could use some fresh air,” Sothea murmured in his ear, and Csevet stirred himself enough to nod. It was a clear and welcome invitation. 

When they rose from the table, Kaler wolf-whistled and Anaru snorted into his glass of ale. The two of them stumbled through the back door of the Hart, into the alley behind it, which was dark and deserted although somewhat reeking of piss and refuse. Just like old times, sneaking moments together in any place they could find. Csevet’s back hit the cold bricks of the wall, with Sothea’s warm, broad chest pressed against his, and their mouths met sloppily. 

Growling a little, Sothea slid his hands down Csevet’s side, cupping his ass, and Csevet hitched one leg up on Sothea’s hip to give him better access. They were both hard, rutting against one another, kissing wet and open. Digging his fingers into Sothea’s hair, Csevet felt the smooth silk of the ribbons in contrast to the coarse curls. Sothea sighed and tipped his head into the touch like a cat, breaking the kiss. Csevet trailed his lips down Sothea’s throat, nibbling and licking up the salt of his skin. He smelled homey and familiar. Csevet nuzzled under his ear, making him gasp, and felt his hands tighten on his ass. 

Neither of them had the coordination it would take to actually fuck against the wall in an alley, but they took turns on their knees, enjoying one another as thoroughly as time and location would allow. It left Csevet feeling warm and loose, supremely pleased with the world in a way that no other mood could quite match. They kissed a little longer, tender and slow, until the chill of the night finally penetrated their haze of alcohol and arousal and drove them indoors. 

It was the small hours of the morning and the Hart was mostly empty when they staggered back in. Anaru had his head down on the table, and Kaler toasted cheerfully as they sat down. “My companion has tragically abandoned me to the fickle embrace of sleep, and I was left all alone while the two of you enjoyed each other,” Kaler complained, but there was no real jealousy there. “My turn next time,” he added winking at Csevet.

It was past time for them all to be in bed, so they roused Anaru and said their goodbyes in the street, where Sothea turned toward Habrobar’s workshop and the remaining three of them made it back to the Untheileneise leaning on one another for steadiness, like so many nights in the past. They parted ways behind the kitchens, Csevet to his new quarters and his friends to the barracks. 

Back in his small, private room he knew he ought to go straight to bed, so tired and tipsy that there were halos in his vision around all the gas lamps, but he was jittery and dazedly alert. He had promised Kaler a poem for a boy, and he was still buzzing deep in his body from his tryst with Sothea, so he picked up a pen and bent over the desk. 

The words flowed uninhibited by the usual parts of his brain that second-guessed what he wrote, which had succumbed to exhaustion and drink hours before. He poured onto the page the euphoria of touch, the matched hunger of body and soul, the way the heat of carnal connection could dispel lonely longing. 

_...I am consumed with thy kisses until I cease to be myself - thy kisses leave marks the same shade as thy skin - transform me in the image of thyself.  _ Frowning at the page he crossed that out. Make it general, Kaler had said, it was just that Sothea was still in Csevet’s head. He started again. 

_...consume me with thy kisses - until all I am is a hunger - a mouth - a tongue. Let me swallow thee down into my belly - warm myself with a drink of thee… _ In Csevet’s mind's eye was dusky skin, beautiful black curls, thick between his fingers, and clear gray eyes looking down at him. But Sothea’s eyes were goblin orange. 

Csevet swore and shook his head. He was just tired; he would clean the poem up in the morning. Dropping the page on top of the rest of the papers on his desk, he staggered to bed for what little sleep the night had left. 

He woke with the matin bells, feeling worse for three hours of sleep then he might have done had he stayed awake. He knew well from long nights on the road with that sometimes no sleep at all was preferable to little sleep. His head ached, and it took him twice as long as usual to choose an outfit from his wardrobe and dress. It took three tries to get his buttons done up straight, in the small mirror above his washstand. Sothea had left bite marks on his clavicle but the collar was high enough to hide them. There were circles under his eyes but nothing to be done about that. 

Glancing at his pocket watch as he tucked it into his jacket, he cursed under his breath - a habit he had nearly broken himself of, which a few hours in his former life appeared to have reinvigorated - and grabbed his boots. Fully dressed, he swept an armful of important papers up off the desk, and hurried toward the Alcethmeret. 

After taking a quick detour to the pneumatic station, to pick up the newly arrived missives, he reached the dining room just a few minutes tardy - Edrehasivar didn’t appear to notice but Esaran cast him a suspicious look as he passed her in the hall outside. She had known him long enough to spot the signs of a raucous night. 

Edrehasivar greeted him with his usual warmth, which Maia had never learned was not due to a secretary from his emperor. “Good morning, Csevet.” 

“Serenity.” Csevet bowed, feeling his temples pounding at the change in position. He righted himself with a vague, wry nostalgia for the many days past when he had delivered messages hungover, sleepless, or both. It was not part of the couriers' life that he missed at all. “Your correspondence for the day.” 

“Thank you,” Maia said, making a face. Although he was a quick learner and had acquired the skills of impassivity and dissemblance that his rank required, he rarely bothered to retain appropriate imperial dignity with his household. It was one of the many things that challenged Csevet’s safe bounds of acceptable affection for his emperor.  _ Thou ought not to think of him by his given name _ , he reminded himself. It was harder to curtail his own thoughts when he was tired. 

Csevet handed him the stack of letters already sorted from the previous evening, and retreated to a side table to begin sorting those that had arrived by pneumatic that morning. He ought to have arisen early enough to have already completed that task, but even less sleep would have done him no good at all. As it was, he found himself reading each line two or three times before it percolated through his foggy mind. Dropping his head into his hands, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to focus. 

“Are you well?” 

Csevet jerked upright. Edrehasivar was looking at him, frowning in concern. “Quite well, thank you.” 

“You look tired,” the emperor persisted. 

Csevet’s ears dipped. “Perhaps a little. Our apologies, Serenity, we did not mean to cause you concern.” 

“Do not apologize, please. We do not wish to see you working yourself to exhaustion.” 

Csevet could feel his blush burning on his cheeks. “Please, do not worry on our account.” 

Looking unconvinced, Edrehasivar returned to his stack of correspondence, and Csevet watched the way he chewed his lower lip as he concentrated, long eyelashes downcast over gray eyes. Realizing he was staring, Csevet jerked his own attention back to his own work. For a time there was no sound except the rustle of paper, and the clink of the emperor’s teacup in the saucer. 

Some time later, he became aware of an oppressive silence emanating from the other side of the room. Csevet lifted his head. Edrehasivar was holding a sheet of paper, staring at it with his eyes wide and his ears back. Kiru and Telimezh were watching him in some alarm. 

Doing a rapid mental calculation, Csevet tried to think whether any of the letters he had sorted last night before going out had been weighty enough to provoke such a reaction. There had been one a packet of the usual business from the zhasan’s secretary, and it had included a sealed missive addressed to “Maia” which he had not opened. Perhaps it was something his wife had written to him? Csevet could think of nothing else out of the ordinary that would cause the consternation or alarm on the emperor’s face. 

“Is there a problem, Serenity?” he asked, sitting up straighter and wishing his head felt less stuff with wool. 

“No! I, ah.” Edrehasivar thrust the page beneath the others and grabbed another letter at random. “No problem.” Picking up his teacup he buried his nose in the new letter, not making eye contact. His slate-colored skin did not show a blush readily, but Csevet thought he saw his complexion darken. “We are finished with these,” he added, pushing the whole stack toward Csevet. “You may take them back.” 

Frowning, Csevet rose and went to fetch the stack. He leafed through the papers rapidly as he turned away from the table, looking for the one which had so arrested Edrehasivar. It was on the very bottom, and his fingers found it easily. Looking down at it, Csevet froze. A wave of horror, hot and cold like a fever, cascaded down his spine. The words swam on the page. 

_ \- a mouth - a tongue. Let me swallow thee down into my belly -  _

He jerked around to stare at the emperor and found Maia staring back at him. Csevet’s ears were flat against his head, cheeks flaming. He knew he ought to control his response but it was all he could do to resist the urge to prostrate himself on the floor and beg for mercy. 

Absurdly, there was something resembling his own mortification reflected in the emperor’s face. Csevet could tell Maia was about to blurt out an absurd apology, and could feel its twin on his own tongue but bit it back viciously. There were other people in the room, and it would serve neither of them to air this publically. 

“Serenity, did you get a chance to review the report from the Coppersmith’s Guild?” he blurted, taking refuge in mundanity. “They have the first audience this morning.” 

Maia - Edrehasivar, Csevet reminded himself viciously - blinked and swallowed. Csevet watched his throat bob and hated himself. “Yes, we believe we have what we need,” he said, somewhat unsteadily. 

Csevet nodded and turned away. His hands were shaking, he realized. He would not be able to listen attentively during the audiences, or to take his usual notes. Eru's voice returned to him - _ thou art the most important peasant in the Untheileneise. Surely canst delegate.  _ The most important thing was that the job got done, that the emperor had the information he needed. "Excuse us, Serenity," Csevet murmured, and bowed himself out of the room. 

In the cool quiet of the hall, he allowed himself ten seconds to close his eyes and breathe. It hardly helped. The worst part, besides the burning terror of dismissal and the sheer humiliation of the whole situation, was a horrible, adolescent anguish that the poetry Maia had seen was not anywhere near Csevet's best, written in the middle of the night and drunk. That was beyond foolish, and Csevet dismissed it as firmly as he could. 

Having allowed himself three deep breaths, he went to fetch one of his undersecretaries. He deposited Silvo in the audience chamber with Edrehasivar to take notes on the proceedings, and removed himself to the Tortoise Room to work in relative private. 

Although there was a pile of things requiring his attention, he could focus on none of them. He had half a dozen missives to finish and post, and a report on the grain harvest in southern Thu-Istandaar to read and summarize. His head felt as if it were made of lead. The words would not stay in the correct order. 

Finally, when audiences were over for the morning and Edrehasivar would have time to finish luncheon, Csevet rose, got the report from Silvo on the audiences, and then steeled himself to rejoin his emperor. Hiding from it would do no good. 

A servant in the hallway of the Alcethmeret advised him that the emperor was in his private chambers changing for the afternoon of courtly entertainments that he would be expected to appear at. Csevet checked his watch, and reflected that someone was keeping Edrehasivar on schedule in his absence. That thought was followed by a self pitying murmur of,  _ he doesn’t need thee after all.  _ He pushed it away. Unhelpful. Unnecessary. 

The emperor, his nohecharei, and his edocharei were in the bedchamber. Normally, Csevet would not have had qualms about joining them - his business often took him to the Edrehasivar’s side in various states of undress - but instead he hovered in one of the outer rooms. 

When the door finally opened and Edrehasivar emerged, he stopped abruptly, Kiru and Telemezh behind him. “Csevet. Mer Telanar said you were indisposed.” 

“Serenity.” Silently, Csevet cursed Silvo’s honest nature, although it was one of the qualities Csevet tried to cultivate in his deputies. “We merely had other business to attend to and wanted someone to attend audience who would be able to provide their full attention.” 

Edrehasivar glanced behind him, into the bedchamber where Avris and Nemer’s voices could be heard speaking softly to one another. Kiru pulled the door closed, so they were alone, the four of them. The nohecharei drew back tactfully, do the corners of the room, to give them at least an illusion of privacy. 

He bowed his head. “Serenity, I…”

“You owe us no explanation.” It was obvious that Maia thought the poem was a personal reflection on a real lover - and to a certain extent that was true. 

“No, we…” Csevet stopped and swallowed. Was it worse to allow Maia to believe that the salacious and hungry verse was Csevet’s own personal longing, or to explain about the dubious commissions as a way of deflecting responsibility for the sentiments the poem contained? “We ought not to do anything that could reflect poorly on your Imperial self.”

“What you do in your own time is none of our business. We would not want you to… to forgo any pleasures you wish to pursue privately.” The emperor’s ears were flat with embarrassment, and Csevet’s own face was burning. 

He dipped his head, staring at the floor. “We would give up anything of our own pleasure before disgracing you by association, Serenity.” 

“Csevet…” Maia sounded agitated, and Csevet’s instinctive response to that tone was to try to soothe him. 

“Serenity, truly. My - our most important pleasure is to be by your side.” That rang of more truth than Csevet perhaps wanted known. It was the lack of sleep and the fact he had not eaten since dinner the previous night, but it silenced the emperor. 

Risking a glance up, Csevet saw that Maia was staring at him, mouth slightly open. “I wish,” Maia said slowly, and the informal first rang through the room like a gong, “that I could give thee something worth as much as thy loyalty.” 

_ I wish that also,  _ Csevet thought, somewhat hysterically. 

After Csevet had gone, Maia tried to turn his attention to the briefing in preparation for his afternoon meetings. The document was in some scribe’s neat, anonymous copperplate, but in the margins, Csevet had scribbled notes. It was the same untidy hand that the poem had been written in, instantly recognizable. Maia felt his face heat again and his ears flatten as he thought of it. 

He ought to have stopped reading as soon as he realized that one of Csevet’s private papers had gotten mixed up in the Imperial correspondence. But he had not. Guilt twisted in Maia’s stomach when he remembered sitting here, frozen, eyes scanning the obscene verses, cock shamefully growing hard beneath the table as he realized what he was looking at. 

The poem had been messy and unfinished, and that alone was enough to tell Maia that it had been meant for no one’s eyes but Csevet’s, but far more damning was that it spoke undeniably of erotic love between two men. It was not that Maia had never thought of such a thing, or that he believed Setharis’s vicious deprecations of marnei, but that he had never considered Csevet in such a light. The verses, while somewhat florid, evoked a deep sense of longing, desire as-yet unsated despite the pleasures the writer - Csevet - described. Reading it, Maia’s own emotions had become hopelessly entangled in the skillful craft of the poetry, and when he had looked up, shocked, at Csevet, and seen Csevet staring back at him, Maia had been swamped in a rush of hunger and yearning so urgent it had made him weak. 

He had been unable to shake the traces of that feeling all through his morning audiences, feeling Csevet’s absence acutely despite the competence of the under-secretaries assisting him, although he was glad Csevet was resting. Csevet had looked distinctly ill that morning even before the incident with the poem - Maia had lived long enough with Setharis to recognize a hangover when he saw one. He wondered if Csevet had been with his lover, and then scolded himself sternly that it was none of his business. 

His wife joined him for luncheon in the Alcethmeret, and Maia tried to be attentive but clearly failed, as she put down her soup spoon halfway through the first course, and said, “Maia. What is eating thee?”

He glanced up at the handful of people in the room - Ishean, and a pair of other servants attending the table, his nohecharei, Csethiro’s secretary, and an undersecretary at the desk in the corner. Csevet’s desk, he couldn’t help thinking with a pang. “Naught for public conversation.” 

Csethiro raised an eyebrow, and then waved the servants out of the room with a dismissive hand. “You too,” she added to the two secretaries, who gathered up their papers and went. She had a court-bred imperiousness that Maia thought he would never learn.

When they were alone except for his nohecharei, Maia sighed, fiddling with his spoon. He would die before sharing Csevet’s secrets, even in the perfect confidence of this small group, but he was restless and unsettled in silence. 

“We need not speak of it if dost not wish,” Csethiro said gently, and he felt a rush of gratitude for his wife, and for the undeserved luck that had made their match a happy one. 

“I…” he began. “When I first took the throne, I was… overwhelmed by the scrutiny. The lack of privacy. I’ve grown accustomed to it,” not comfortable with it, but accustomed, “but I realize that the same scrutiny is imposed on those close to me. It seems… unfair.” 

Csethiro tilted her head, clearly confused. “It is natural that thy household be circumspect in their behaviors that might reflect poorly on thee. It is a mark of their loyalty.” 

“Yes, but it shouldn’t have to be! Not if they aren’t doing anything wrong.” 

His wife frowned. “Hast thou a particular concern?”

Maia waved his hands vaguely. “I just wish my staff and household could… live as they wished, take whomsoever they wished as a lover, without concern of it reflecting poorly on the Elflands.” 

“Dost… dost thou wish that?” Csethiro asked, with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “To take a lover?” 

“No!” His yelp drew the attention of his nohecherei and he lowered his voice sharply. “Csethiro, no, I would not treat thee so ill.” 

The striking lines of her face softened. “It is not uncommon for the Emperor to take lovers, or a favorite. There have been many reigns where both Zhas and Zhasan had companions other than each other. Fidelity is perhaps the exception rather than the rule.”

His stomach twisted, thinking again of Csevet. “I would not wish anything that would make thee feel unwanted or unloved.” 

“I know, Maia,” she said, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Thou art one of the best people I have ever known; better than I dared hope for in a husband. I only meant that it would not be such a shocking thing for thee to contemplate.” 

Maia bit his lip. He owed her his full honesty. “Had I not been forced by my office to marry, I would have perhaps… if circumstances were different, I might have wished to take other lovers. To explore.” Csethiro nodded and squeezed his hand. A thought occurred to him, an uncomfortable one. “Dost thou? Wish it?” 

She was silent for long enough that Maia’s heart began thundering fearfully in his chest. Finally, she said, “I have no interest in men other than thyself, men on the whole being what they are. And I would not endanger the legitimacy of the succession.” She lowered her voice even further. “But among the women of our group of scholarly friends, there were those who were… like-minded in other ways.”

His mind was spiralling along confused and intriguing paths based on the unknown country of women’s pleasure which his marriage had opened up to him. “Didst… art… didst thou…” he stammered, as half-tongued as anyone had ever accused him of being. 

“Sometimes,” Csethiro said, taking pity on him. She returned to her soup while Maia goggled silently at that. It seemed like a dismissal, but Maia knew her well by now. Her flippant manner was a challenge - daring him to react badly. It was an admission that made her vulnerable and her bent head and meticulous table manners were her way of awaiting his response. 

He swallowed. “I truly was not asking for myself,” he said faintly, still distracted by thoughts of his wife carnally entangled with another woman. “I happened to see something that... in any case.” Maia shook himself. “If dost wish something more or different than I can give, I would see thee have it, but I had not thought to want anyone other than thee for the rest of my life.” 

She looked up, and her sharp features softened into an expression that made his chest tighten. “And I love thee for it,” Csethiro said, leaning across the table to kiss him sweetly. “But know it is not a condition of my love. I do not expect thy fidelity, only thy honesty with me.” 

He nodded vaguely as Ishean came back to clear the dishes, and completely failed to focus on any of his meetings that afternoon. His head was a hectic jumble of Csethiro and Csevet - wondering what each of them did with their marnei lovers, and shamefully, distractingly aroused by his own speculation. He thought of whether it would upset him to share Csethiro with another, and then, thinking of her own generosity of spirit, imagined himself taking advantage of such an agreement. Of watching Csevet’s nimble hands all through a long meeting, like this one, and then pulling him aside afterward and kissing him - sucking those long fingers into his mouth, finding out where else they could go on his body… Maia was deeply grateful that table of the council chamber concealed his cockstand from the eyes of all his advisors. 

Csevet was uncharacteristically distant over the next few weeks, although he performed his duties as meticulously as ever. It made Maia’s stomach hurt to think that Csevet was ashamed or frightened, but he didn’t know how to speak of it with him. Maia was plagued guiltily with his own imaginings, which kept him company at night, and during any dull moment of the day, particularly when his secretary was in the room. He found himself needing to avert his eyes from Csevet’s hands and shoulders, from his slender waist and backside as he bent over his desk, lest Maia embarrass himself visibly in his robes. 

Certainly Csevet would have noticed something amiss except that he was already avoiding Maia’s gaze with equal studiousness. He made excuses not to be alone with Maia, and got other secretaries to join him for long meetings. It made Maia miserable to see Csevet uncomfortable and miserable when he was gone as well. 

One gray afternoon, leaving the Alcethmeret on his way to Parliament, Maia remembered a document he had meant to consult for that afternoon’s meeting. 

“We forgot to ask Csevet about the report on grain tarifs,” Maia said, halting in the middle of the staircase.

“Shall we send him a messenger?” the under-secretary, Silvo, asked. 

“No, his office is on our way. You go on ahead to the Parliment, we will be there shortly.” If the meeting started without him, all the better. Silvo hurried away, and Maia, with his first nohecharei in tow, took a detour toward the Rose Room. Csevet’s small office was in the maze of administrative offices behind it. For every audience chamber, Maia had found, were a dozen rooms for the real work of governance to be done. 

The door to Csevet’s office was ajar, and Maia was just reaching out to knock when he heard voices within. 

“What’s this?” Csevet asked. 

“A letter I carried from the Imada regarding river trade on the Tetara,” said an unfamiliar voice. The informal first caught Maia’s attention. There were few people who would speak thus to the personal secretary of the Emperor. “I thought thou shouldst have a look at it.” Maia leaned forward, peeking through the crack in the door, feeling the back of his neck burn guiltily at his nohecharei’s eyes on him. He was just glancing, and then he would knock. He wasn’t going to listen at the door like a spying child. 

Csevet was seated at his desk, and beside him stood a young man, dark-skinned and dark-haired, dressed in courier’s leathers. Csevet was unfolding the letter, scanning it quickly. “This will be advantageous to know before they make a public announcement. Kaler, thank thee. Wilt thou take payment for this?” 

The courier, Kaler, leaned his hip against Csevet’s desk and smiled disarmingly. “I was fairly drunk but I think I thou promised me a poem.” 

Maia felt his heart turn over uncomfortably. Was this the man for whom Csevet had written that verse? They certainly acted familiar enough, although Csevet was grimacing in response to the request. 

“And I will keep my word if that is thy wish,” he said. 

“It is. No one has thy skill with words.” 

Csevet sighed. “Then I will write it. Canst expect it by pneumatic.” 

“Wilt not bring it to me? Thou shouldst spend the night with us again. We miss thee.” He was clearly speaking in the plural, and Maia wondered at the friends Csevet had never spoken of. 

“I cannot. It was a mistake.” 

His friend frowned. “The Empire hasn’t fallen yet. Wilt thou bury thyself in service to the Emperor and deny thyself all companionship? The love of old friends? The... pleasures of our company?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Maia felt another tremor in his chest. “Surely the Emperor does not offer that.” 

“Thou wilt not speak of him that way.” Csevet snapped. “Watch thy tongue, Kaler.” 

Kaler threw up his hands. “Art thou planning to live the rest of thy life like this?” he exclaimed. “Truly?” 

Csevet had risen from his chair, mouth thin, one fist clenched on the edge of the desk. “It would be my honor to do so,” he said, in a hard voice. 

They glared at one another for a long moment, and then Kaler seemed to deflate. “Does he know?” he asked quietly. 

“Does who know?” 

“Edrehasivar,” Kaler said, and Maia jumped at his own name. “Does he know of thy feelings for him?” 

Maia’s stomach turned over. He pressed closer to the door, beyond caring that he presented an extremely undignified picture eavesdropping on his secretary. Surely, Kaler didn’t mean… Csevet had turned slightly away from the door, so his face was almost entirely concealed. The sliver of his profile was unreadable. There was a long silence, in which Maia heard only the rushing of his own blood like water in his ears. 

Finally, Csevet said, almost too soft to be heard, “Of course not. I would go to my grave before having it spoken of.” 

“I’m sorry,” Kaler said, also subdued. 

Csevet sighed, and said, “Thou art a fool,” with a note of humor creeping back into his voice. 

“Yes,” his friend agreed easily. “But so art thou.” 

Csevet waved a hand, sitting back down at his desk. “Get out of here, Kaler. Thank thee for the letter.” 

Maia missed the rest of their farewells as he scrambled back from the door. Beshelar looked extremely disapproving, Cala only amused, as Maia retreated to the other end of the corridor so that he could make a dignified and unsuspicious approach. Kaler emerged from the office just as he reached the door, and his eyes widened when he saw Maia. They were goblin-gold, Maia saw. “Serenity,” Kaler said, bowing deeply. 

Csevet’s head jerked up. “Serenity,” he echoed. “You are meant to be at the Parliament.” 

“We are on our way,” Maia said. “But we realized we are missing the summary on the grain tarifs.” 

“Ah. Our apologies, Serenity.” Csevet shuffled papers. “It is here.” They started at one another for a beat too long and Csevet said. “Was there aught else?” 

“No, that was all. Will we see you after the meeting?” He hoped it did not sound as plaintive as he felt. 

“We will bring your Serenity’s correspondence when you are finished with Parliament.” _ As always _ , Csevet did not add, though Maia heard it in the faint perplexity of his tone. 

“Very good,” Maia said faintly, and retreated, past the silent figure of Kaler with his head respectfully bowed, down the hall toward the grills of the Alcethmeret. 

He did his best to attend to the meeting of Parliament, though his all-but-symbolic role there chafed at him even more heavily than it did customarily. Afterward, Csevet brough him his correspondence, as promised, in the Tortoise Room, and he sipped the tea Ishean had poured, and watched his secretary’s mouth move as he explained the priorities of the day’s letters. Distracted by the twitching of Csevet’s pale ears, and his nimble fingers flicking through papers, Maia had to ask him to repeat himself several times. 

By the end of their meeting, both of them were flustered and avoiding one another’s eyes. Maia’s chest ached at the thought of Csevet’s discomforture, knowing he was the cause, but he also burned with uncertain curiosity at the courier’s words earlier -  _ does he know of thy feelings for him?  _

Rising to leave, Csevet shuffled the last of his papers into order, meticulous as always, except for that one, damning morning. His ears were low, eyes downcast as he murmured, “Good night, Serenity.” 

Maia couldn’t stand the slump of Csevet’s shoulders any longer. “A moment, please,” he said in a rush of breath. 

“Was there aught else, Serenity?” Csevet blinked, and at least he was looking at Maia directly now. 

“Ah.” Maia gulped. They were alone save for his second nohecharei, but words had deserted Maia. 

Csevet’s brow furrowed. “Serenity, if there is something wrong, we apologize most sincerely…”

“No!” Everyone startled a little, and Maia drew an unsteady breath. “Naught is amiss.” This clearly did not reassure Csevet, and it hurt Maia to see him in distress. How much longer could they drag out this awkward distance between them, Maia wondered.  _ I would go to my grave before having it spoken of,  _ Csevet had said, and Maia owed him at least the dignity to respect that wish. But if they were both longing for something silently, which was gradually driving them both mad, then Maia was the only one who could break the silence. Csevet’s sense of propriety was too strong to allow him to make an overture, even if he had an inkling of Maia’s feelings for him. Maia wished helplessly that he had thought to ask Csethiro for help before opening his mouth, but he could see Csevet’s shoulders tightening. Now he had begun, it would be cruel not to go on, and Maia could at least save them both from his own cowardice. 

He swallowed hard. “We… we spoke to our wife about the possibility of our… taking a lover.” 

Csevet gaped at him. Carefully Maia avoided glancing at the unmoved figures of his nohecharei behind him. “Who... that is - are you...” Csevet visibly forced himself to silence, and began again. “Is there any person in particular, Serenity?” His voice shook ever so slightly. 

“There is,” Maia said, his own hands clenched in the brocade of his robe, beneath the edge of the table. 

Csevet pressed his lips together. His fair face had gone ivory pale. “Of course, we will assist your Serenity with whatever arrangements you desire. We hope our discretion and loyalty goes without saying.” 

“Oh! That’s not - I haven’t - We haven’t already…” Maia’s stomach was knotted, the tips of his ears hot.  _ Spit it out, half-tongue. _ “It is not that I have a lover, but that I wish to ask.” He gulped. “Thee. To ask thee.” 

“Serenity?” Csevet’s ears twitched, rings jingling. 

“I do not wish to discomfit thee, or ask for something thou wouldst not want,” he hurried on, words tumbling over one another once they had begun. “If thou hast any objection, any at all, I would not want my station to force thee, or make thee leave another for me. I only… I don’t wish thee to be lonely and I… I want… I can’t stop thinking about thee.” 

Maia’s face burned, and a flush was creeping into Csevet’s cheeks also. “You want…?” Csevet began, unsteadily, and stopped. “Truly?” 

Chewing his lip, Maia nodded. 

Csevet was still clutching a stack of papers, wide-eyed, but his shoulders had lost their defensive hunch. “Why me?” he said after a long silence. 

“It’s… thy… it’s just...” Maia gestured vaguely and fought the urge to squirm. “Thy hands and thy voice and… just  _ thee.  _ I have not thy way with words, to tell thee more prettily.” 

Csevet blushed bright scarlet. “That is not… Serenity, what you saw was not… it was far from our best work.” 

“I liked it. I did not know you were a poet.” 

“It is not something an emperor needs to know about his secretary.” Csevet’s gaze was downcast. 

Maia wetted his dry lips with his tongue. “But of his lover?” That drew Csevet’s gaze up from the marble floor, but Maia still couldn’t read his expression. He felt almost sick to his stomach from his own boldness and Csevet’s silence. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to look Kiru or Telimezh in the face again. “Csevet, tell me if my overture was untoward, and we will never speak of it again.” 

Csevet, who always found words so easy, said haltingly, “It… was not. Untoward.” 

“It was not?” Something sweet was expanding in Maia’s chest, like the first breath of spring air after a storm. 

The rings in Csevet’s ears chimed sweetly as he lifted his head. “No, Serenity.”

Summer was dragging into a golden fall, and the windows in the Alcethmeret were open to the clear sky. At his desk in the Rose Room, Csevet was framed in a square of late afternoon light, the breeze stirring wisps of silver hair which had come loose from his braid. He glanced up when Maia entered and smiled at him. Familiar as it was, it still made Maia’s stomach flutter. 

With Cala and Beshelar hanging back by the door, Maia crossed the empty room and allowed himself to put a hand on Csevet’s shoulder, fingers just brushing the bare skin of his throat, above his collar. He watched the tips of Csevet’s ears turn pink. 

The door creaked and Maia drew his hand back sharply, feeling as always the pang of frustration and fear at their forced concealment.

“Serenity, a courier from Dachensol Habrobar,” one of the under-secretaries announced. 

Csevet sat up straighter. “Send him in.” 

The courier who entered and bowed was part goblin, with yellow eyes and his thick black curls braided back with scarlet ribbons. Even though he bowed to Maia, part of his attention remained on Csevet, and Csevet was looking back, face bright. Maia thought he recognized the courier from previous errands to Habrobar. 

“Serenity,” he said, holding out an enameled box smaller than his palm, “We have the new seal for the Zhasan, with our master’s compliments.” 

“Excellent. Convey my thanks to him,” Maia said, nodding for Csevet to take it.

Rising gracefully as ever, Csevet took the small box from the courier, saying softly, “Thank thee, Sothea,” and giving a smile clearly meant for a friend. A few months ago, Csevet would not have allowed Maia to see such a personal interaction - he would have considered it unseemly. “This time, hopefully the Zhasan will be more careful with her alchemical experiments.” He glanced at Maia, inviting him to share the gentle joke at Csethiro’s expense, one she herself had made over breakfast the week before. Sothea’s eyes widened a little, clearly uncertain in the presence of the Emperor. 

Maia turned away, pretending interest in the papers on the desk to give Csevet a little privacy with his friend. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Csevet reach out and squeeze Sothea’s hand. “Art well?” he murmured. 

“Yes. And thee?” 

“Excellently well,” Csevet said, and Maia smiled to himself. 

“The others will be glad to hear it. We all miss thee.”

Csevet chuckled. “Miss the marvelous effect of my words, no doubt.”

“We miss thee in every way,” Sothea said, and there was a certain inflection that made Maia wonder. He knew, now, that Csevet had had lovers in the courier fleet. 

“I know,” murmured Csevet. 

There was a short silence. Outside the window, birds sang in the garden. “When Kaler saw thee last, he said that thy work leaves thee wanting.” Sothea’s voice was careful, and Maia thought back to the last conversation he had overheard. If couriers gossiped anything like the servants at Adomonee, Csevet’s friends probably all knew of his unrequited feelings for the Emperor. 

“I am much more fulfilled, recently,” Csevet said, demure. Maia bit his lip, grinning down at the desk. 

“Salezheio, Csevet,” Sothea swore softly, and Csevet huffed a stifled laugh. 

The two of them said their goodbyes shortly afterward, Sothea casting wide-eyed glances between Csevet and Maia as he departed. When the door was safely shut behind him and they were alone again but for the nohecharei, Csevet handed the box with the seal ring to Maia. “The zhasan will be glad to be sealing her own letters again.

“Yes.” Their fingers tangling together around the enamel box. Instead of releasing him, Maia tugged at Csevet’s hand, drawing him close so that Csevet’s huff of disapproval warmed his cheek. 

“Maia...” he murmured, part warning, part acknowledgement. 

Pressing a quick kiss to the shell of Csevet’s ear, Maia savored the way he shivered, and then stepped back. “Couldst see thy friends more often if thy wished.”

Csevet blinked at him, pink and distracted. “What?” 

“Thy old friends, who miss thee so much. Couldst see them sometimes. Art not a prisoner, Csevet.” 

“I know that, Serenity.” Csevet shook his head. “But I cannot afford such indiscretions.” He brushed his hand briefly against Maia’s arm. “I have a great deal to lose.” 

“It’s not right thou give up those dear to thee, because of me.”

“It was not right that I had to drag a green boy out of bed in the middle of the night and tell him he was Emperor.” Csevet smiled. “But since I have to choose, I would rather be here with thee than in a tavern writing dirty verses for my friend’s amusement.” 

Maia looked down at the papers on the desk. “Are you sure these timber reports are more entertaining than composing salacious poetry?” 

“Perhaps not." Csevet shots him a toothy grin which belonged not to Maia's polished secretary but to the lowborn and indifferently mannered courier he had once been. In recent months Maia had realized just how much of himself Csevet had been concealing beneath his professionalism. Every new piece was a gift. "But I imagine I could be gainfully occupied writing salacious verse for my emperor's amusement. If it pleased his Serenity."

"It certainly does." Maia felt his cheeks heating, thinking of some of the poems Csevet had shared with him. 

"You know, it was my usual habit to collect favors in trade for my poetry." Amusement curled the corners of Csevet's mouth, his gray eyes bright. 

Maia swallowed, flushed hot all over. "I can think of some things I might trade thee."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! I'm on tumblr [@stillwaterseas](https://stillwaterseas.tumblr.com/)


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